


Bounce The Moon

by coffeebuddha



Category: Castle
Genre: Get Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeebuddha/pseuds/coffeebuddha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javier wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bounce The Moon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [_bluebells](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=_bluebells).



Javier's father dies when he's fifteen, and he wants to go out and pick a fight with someone twice his size. He wants to scream and cry and hit the punching bag he has hanging in the corner of his room until his knuckles crack and bleed. He wants to run down the street until he's blinded by his sweat and his focus narrows to nothing more than the lactic acid burning through the muscles of his calves and thighs.

He wants to, because his father is  _ dead _ and nothing will ever be wholly right again.

He doesn't, because Carla needs someone to help her braid her hair before the service. Because Andres can't be trusted not to get snot on his good church clothes, so Javier has to keep a hankie up his sleeve and an eye on him. Because his mama looks small and frail and sad in a way he's never seen her before, but still somehow pleased when she cups his cheek in her palm and says, "Already taking such good care of the family. He would be so proud of you,  mijo ."

So he wants and wants and wants, but he knows the score.  Wanting is all fine and good, but unless it matches up with what's necessary, what's  expected , he pushes it down to a small, secret place that he can ignore. Except for very late at night when the darkness and quiet can lure him into pretending it's safe to imagine all the things he denies himself. 

In high school, he wants to slack off and learn to smoke and kiss Tony Robertson under the bleachers after classes are over for the day until his lips are numb and raw with stubble burn. Instead, he studies and plays varsity football just for the scholarship possibilities and takes Nancy Sullivan, the nice girl from down the road who his mama adores, to the senior prom. 

In college, he wants to drink and party and fuck as many people as he can in as many positions as are humanly possible. Instead, he studies and helps Andres with his science homework and Carla with a bad breakup over the phone and pretends that he never went down on the opposing running back in the grimy bathroom stall after an away game.

In the police academy, he wants to wear a badge so badly he can taste it like a bright, new penny in the back of his mouth. So he studies and tries to forget how much he loves the weight and bitter tang of a cock on his tongue and nearly gets engaged to a sweet, tone deaf girl who sings in the church choir with his aunt.

Not too many years after that, he's standing in the station break room when the chief walks up and introduces him to his new partner. Javier doesn't remember the conversation. He can't repeat any of the things they said or if Ryan's eyes were crinkled at the corners with warmth or heavy and sad from leaving a department he'd enjoyed, even if it was by his own choice. What he  _ does _ remember is Beckett sidling up to him about five minutes after Montgomery drags Ryan off to meet someone else and asking, "So, what do you think of the new guy?"

He says, barely even paying attention to the words tripping out of his mouth, "I think he needs to come out of the closet already. I could be on the other side of the city and still be able to feel him sucking my dick," which is pretty much as close to wishful thinking as he's ever said aloud, regardless of the way his inflection bounces in the easy  cadence of a joke.

Beckett rolls her eyes and jabs him in the side with a bony elbow, but Javier doesn't even notice. He's too busy staring at Ryan and  _ wanting _ .

* * *

When he's sixteen, Andres starts doing drugs. It's not the weak shit that's no problem for a high school kid to get his hands on in the locker room, either. It's easy to see the  meth behind the jagged scratch marks mapped across his near skeletal chest and forearms, even easier to read the cocaine in the track marks that are scattered across the vulnerable insides of his elbows like  a  perverse bastardization of braille . It takes two years of Javier tracking him down to disgusting alleys and even more revolting hotel rooms and three rehab stays before he's anywhere approaching clean, and even now their mama still watches him like he's going to break her heart.

Carla gets married the same day she turns eighteen. Her husband is rough around the edges and only has a tenth grade education, but he works his ass off at a mindless job to pay for their apartment and the college textbooks that Carla's financial aid won't cover. Their first daughter, Gabrielle, is born three months after their courthouse wedding. Javier works things out so that he can do most of his paperwork outside of the office so that he can help out those first several hectic months, and their mama is too busy verbally browbeating the priest who's making  grumbling noises about possibly not allowing Gabrielle to be baptized to remember that she's supposed to be  leveling the full force of her Catholic guilt at her only daughter.

Javier dates a long string of completely unobjectionable young women that his mama and aunts introduce him to and never once lets it get serious; he slowly gains a reputation as a bit of a player, but not even his exes seem to have anything negative to say about him, so he doesn't discourage it. Every few Saturday nights, when the itch beneath his skin becomes too much to bear, he sneaks away to a bar that's mostly populated by career military men on leave who won't hassle him about 'internalized homophobia' or 'being closeted' when he has their cocks thrusting fast and messy into his mouth or ass in the back alley. Then Sunday morning he escorts his mama and whoever he's seeing to church, and tries not to feel like he's about to splinter apart when his mama beams at him with pride.

* * *

Rule number one is to never fuck someone who might actually acknowledge that it ever happened afterward; it's an important rule, one of the first ones Javier ever made up for himself, and he's been following it so long that after those first few weeks, it's almost easy to ignore how very badly he wants Ryan. It recedes to the back of his mind, a faint niggling that's no more distracting than the tickle of the beginning of a cold at the back of his throat.

It's almost a surprise when he realizes how much he actually likes Ryan--Ryan, who becomes Kevin so quickly that sometimes Javier forgets and has to take a moment to remember who people are talking about when they call him Ryan. Beckett and a few other people from the station aside, Javier doesn't exactly do friends. Not in any kind of meaningful capacity, anyway. It's dangerous, too dangerous to risk, and he's grown used to erecting a smile or a well constructed joke as a barrier to keep people from getting too close. Kevin just smiles and jokes back, completely oblivious to any and all attempts to keep him from creeping into Javier's life.

After a while, he even kind of forgets that Kevin was ever anything other than Kev, his bro, who kicks Javier's ass at any driving video game they play from Mario Kart to Grand Theft Auto, has more opinions about Star Trek than can possibly be healthy, and once spent an unforgettably gross night on Javier's bathroom floor after insisting the shady Chinese place down the block wasn't as bad as their health rating would suggest.

* * *

The Madden marathons turn into a kind of ritual after their first couple of years as partners. If a case goes badly, it's a mindless therapy, something to use as a backdrop to drinking themselves stupid and falling asleep on the couch together, not close enough to touch, but near enough for the reassurance of being able to hear one another breathe. When a case goes well, it's a celebration, a way to get rid of the rush of adrenalin that never disappears just because the bad guy is behind bars.

Tonight is a celebration. There are a few bottles of beers on the table; not enough to make either of them drunk, even if only one of them had done all the drinking, but enough that they're  pleasantly buzzing. Kevin's shoulder is pressed warm and familiar against Javier's in a move that's no less platonic for his relatively recent breakup with Jenny.

It's a well practiced routine, and almost impossible for it to not go off without a hitch, but apparently Rodgers and Hammerstein were right about impossible things happening every day. The television's turned up louder than it usually is, but it's still difficult to make out anything more than the merest hum of the speakers over the pulsing music that's blasting from down the hallway. It hadn't been that bad at first, no more than a low rumble, but it's slowly and steadily grown over the last few hours until the beer in the bottle Javier's drinking from has visible ripples from the bass.

Kevin slumps a little more against his side, somehow managing to be both near boneless and tense at the same time. He says something Javier can't quite make out, though he can feel the faint vibration of it where they're touching.

"What," he practically yells.

There's a shifting and press of bodies that would make Javier's breath hitch if he wasn't so practiced at ignoring this sort of thing, and then Kevin's lips are suddenly right there against his ear. "I said, this is getting  _ ridiculous _ . How am I supposed to properly beat you like a nun with a ruler if I can't even hear myself think?"

Javier doesn't think his mouth was this dry a minute ago. He keeps his eyes on the television, valiantly resisting the urge to turn his face towards Kevin's--they have to be close enough that their noses would brush, even if their lips wouldn't, which is probably either a really romantic or really pathetic thought and Javier is  _ not _ going to try to figure out which it is--when he says, "Am I the nun or are you? Because I don't think either of us has the bone structure to pull off a wimple."

There's a huff of air against his neck that might be a laugh. "I'm the nun, and I could totally pull off a wimple. My cheekbones are at least as good as Sally Field's." A considering beat. "Maybe better."

Another bump of their shoulders, then Kevin's pushing easily to his feet. Javier's entire side feels cold, his neck still tingling, and he spends a moment remembering Kevin vomiting sweet and sour chicken into his bathtub.

His, "Where are you going?" is a little less needy for it, so he's going to count it as a success.

Kevin rolls a kink out of his neck and shoulders and tosses his controller to Javier. "I'm going to go yell at your asshole neighbors. Wanna come?"

Javier flashes back to earlier that day when Kevin had been in an interrogation room, his blue eyes steely, chin jutting out, lips pressed into a stern line. Even remembering the sweet and sour isn't enough to keep his stomach from flipping over.

" Nah , I'm good. Don't do anything I'll have to bail you out for."

A laugh that Javier can see but not hear is the only answer he gets before Kevin's out the door.

One of the things that  _ nobody is allowed to talk about _ in the Esposito family is that when Carla was pregnant with her second daughter, she coerced Javier into being her back up birthing coach, which had included spending more than a few evenings at  Lamaze classes. Most of the things he'd done for his baby sister had been ridiculous--if he ever has to go see one more obviously fake  psychic , he might shoot something--but he's willing to at least admit to himself  that the breathing  exercises have been more than a little helpful. He slips into one now, time stretching and melting around him like Dali's clocks, until his pulse is a less unreliable metronome for his deep, even breaths and the heat fades from his cheeks.

He doesn't mean to zone out; Kevin coming back into the apartment should have been enough to bring him back to himself before he drifted too far, but when he finally blinks into awareness with a full body shiver, it's nearly half an hour later and Kevin still isn't back. His earlier buzz is gone, and he feels hollowly sober without it. Kevin's a big boy, trained in hand to hand combat and more than capable of taking care of himself, even if he doesn't look like it. Javier tells himself he has no reason to be worried as he grabs his keys off the table by the front door and takes off down the hall at a trot, but he's been to too many  homicides that started out with almost this exact same scenario to take any kind of real comfort in Kevin's competence.

It's not hard to find the party. The music's still pumping loudly out into the hallway and the door is actually open with a few people spilling out of it in a drunken huddle. Javier gently elbows his way past them. Everyone seems loose and happy, a few people he knows from around the building even offering up grins when they see him, and the hard ball of panic in his chest starts to cautiously  unknot .

Kevin's not in the  living room , the kitchen, the tiny bathroom. It's not until he sticks his head into the bedroom that he finds the poker game, a felted table circled by a ring of people in various stages of undress, cigar and cigarette smoke giving the room a hazy blue filter. Kevin's one of the people at the table. An unlit cigar is clamped between his teeth and his fingers are clumsy on the slick, glossy cards he's been dealt, but those things take back seat to the fact that Kevin's naked except for a pair of very tight boxer briefs that cradle more than conceal the bulge at his groin.

Javier doesn't remember telling his legs to move, but suddenly he's right at Kevin's elbow, one hand on his bare, bare, very  _ bare _ shoulder.

"Kevin," he asks, hoping like hell that the music will mask how his voice cracks over those two syllables. "What are you doing?"

Kevin lolls his head back to look up at him. His smile is sloppy and his eyes are bright from the tequila Javier only now notices on the the table. "Javier! Adam--you know Adam," he asks, gesturing at a guy Javier recognizes from the laundry room. "Adam said he'd turn the music down if I won a round of poker."

"You suck at poker." A quick scan of the table is enough to confirm that most everyone else is at least holding their own, while Adam's pile is about twice the size of the next biggest one. Card shark, probably, maybe even professionally. Kevin lists to the side, his head bumping against Javier's stomach.

"Yeah," he says with a laugh. "But I'm always an optimist."

"Yeah, Javier echoes slowly. Without giving himself enough time to question what he's doing, Javier strips his t-shirt off and tosses it to Adam, who easily catches it one handed. 

"He's out." He gets an arm around Kevin's waist--he is  _ not _ going to pay attention to any heart flutters that might happen as a result--and hauls him to unsteady feet. "You mind turning the music down? There are some little kids in the building and it's late."

Adam shrugs and smiles from behind his reflective sunglasses. "Sure, man, not a problem. Your boy is crap at cards, but he's good for a laugh." He drapes Javier's shirt over his shoulders and  exe cutes a sloppy salute. "Figured I only had a little longer before someone filed an official noise complaint anyway."

Javier just nods, not really certain how to respond to that, and starts half carrying Kevin back to his apartment. Kevin is soft and pliable against him, all the tension leeched out of his body. He takes long, swinging steps that nearly topple them both over a couple of times and twists his torso around until his arms are twined around Javier's neck and his nose is nudging up underneath his earlobe.

Javier mentally starts reciting Miranda rights.

They're not quite enough to keep him from being more than half hard by the time he deposits Kevin on his sofa.

"How do you even get yourself into these situations," Javier asks. He'd really like to know, but Kevin's snort is the best answer he's probably going to get.

Kevin sprawls on the couch, his arms and legs spread wide, and there's something Javier can't quite identify about his smile when he flaps a hand at Javier and asks, "You have a pack of cards around here somewhere, right? What do you say we play a few hands?"

Javier freezes and takes a harder look at Kevin. For all of the carefully studied slouch of his body, there's a tension in the line between his eyes, wariness in the slope of his eyebrows, anticipated rejection in the slightest downward turn of one corner of his mouth. So certain this is going to go to hell on him, but putting it out there anyway.

"You suck at cards," Javier says again, his voice a rough rasp like he's already taken Kevin's cock all the way down his throat.

"Yeah, and if you tried, I bet you could suck too," Kevin says. His hand hovers uncertainly between them, the faintest tremor trembling through it.

Javier only knows how to want, not how to  _ take _ , and after so many years of rules and self denial,  he isn't sure he has it in himself to do it now. But he knows how to want-- _ god _ does he know how to want-- and as he nods a wordless agreement and reaches out to tangle his fingers with Kevin's, he finds himself wanting to learn how.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for _bluebells for the Ryan and Esposito Secret Santa fic exchange. It's so late. Oh _god_ , it's _so late_ and I am _so sorry_. I must have started, scrapped, and restarted this fic at least a dozen times, and at one point I'm pretty sure I completely blocked it from my memory like a particularly traumatic event, but it's _done_ now and at some point might have an incredibly smutty sequel to show how very, very sorry I am. 
> 
> Title taken from the lyrics of 'You Make Me Feel So Young'.


End file.
